


Sure, Boss

by abscontrix



Series: Someone Worth Serving [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Asexual!Sherlock, Domestic, Gen, Genderswap, Plot, Violence, adopt-a-sidekick, fem!Moran
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-12
Updated: 2012-03-16
Packaged: 2017-11-01 20:22:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/360864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abscontrix/pseuds/abscontrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moran doesn't just fall through the cracks after the Reichenbach Fall. (No smut.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nicKnack22](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicKnack22/gifts), [ethelindi (eventide)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eventide/gifts).



> Set after Season 2. Adopt-a-sidekick for ethelindi. John's revenge on Moriarty for skinning Sherlock for nicKnack22. Watson's Warriors compliant. Parallel universe to Yes, Boss, or could be the same one if you squint and cock your head. 
> 
> tw: violence, skinning

It was the Vatican Cameo moment all over again.

John the soldier, off-guard and not in control. He’d had help last time, Sherlock and (God help him) Irene, to take out the Americans with elbows and the threat of their own guns. But Irene was dead and Sherlock nearly so, and John was on the floor of 221B with someone’s boot digging into his bare chest.

The sneaky fucker had caught him immediately post-shower, nothing on his mind but starting the kettle for his first decent cup of tea in over a week. Sherlock was still at the hospital, recovering – John would be there, of course, but Mycroft had insisted he go home while Sherlock was in surgery. To be fair, John had taken on a sort of pallor over the week he’d been haunting Sherlock’s hospital room, not sleeping or eating. But the stress had worn him down, and Sherlock hadn’t really been able to tell he was there, and John had his own healing to do. When Mycroft had gotten Lestrade to argue the case for John to go home, he’d finally relented. He’d slept for sixteen solid hours.

To be honest, John was deeply worn out – which would happen to anyone in his position. First, to lose Sherlock; then, to fight Moriarty’s smear campaign, and take out his network as best he could without Sherlock; to find out that both Moriarty and Sherlock had survived, and that Moriarty was again trying to take Sherlock from him…. It made him sick to think of it, Sherlock barely alive on that operating table, and the way Moriarty had smiled, leered at John. The villain had wiped the sticky knives on an apron, and John had heard the weakest moan from Sherlock’s flayed body. John had been physically on the run for hours at that point, following leads to Moriarty’s torture chamber. He had been exhausted and hopeful and desperate and terrified he’d be too late. When it happened, it was over in seconds. The door to the commandeered OR had banged open as John strode in, gun up. He’d swallowed as he’d taken in the scene, the madman’s smile, the skin from Sherlock’s back in a metal pan and hanging from hooks on the wall, the knives.

One blink, two, and then the trigger, and then more blood – no time for either of them to say a thing before Moriarty’s corpse hit the floor. John’s hands had seemed to move of their own accord, gun staying steady in one while the other called Mycroft, and John had almost heard the elder Holmes’ posh “Hello, John” over the sound of the gun as he emptied the rest of the clip into Moriarty’s head, spine, heart. He knew that Mycroft could trace his phone, and he didn’t really need to say anything more after that. Still, he’d kept his tone even as he’d said, “Sherlock’s hurt. Send a medic.”

Understatement of the fucking century. Moriarty had threatened to skin someone, back at the pool, but it was a horror to see the aftermath. Sherlock’s back, from shoulders to hips, had basically been removed, exposing the raw flesh underneath. John’s medic’s mind took over. Pulse and breathing – shallow, erratic, but they hadn’t stopped. He’d need a lot of blood, B-positive as John recalled; antibiotics by the dozen, though the cuts were clean, precise even; artificial tissue to cover the flesh, like they gave for burn victims or the guys hit with mortars, but he couldn’t think of that right now.

He’d just started loosening Sherlock’s restraints when the door banged again, but his back was unguarded. The fucking sniper, John barely had time to think, before there was the butt of a rifle slamming into his temple, and then there was nothing.

When he woke, Mycroft told him the sniper had gotten away, but Moriarty was well and truly dead, and Sherlock – his Sherlock – would survive. John had tried to sit up and nearly passed out – exhaustion and a mild concussion – but Sherlock was right there, in the same room, dark curls and alabaster skin cleaned of blood, gauze covering his exposed back. After that was just waiting, the hospital keeping Sherlock under so that his brain wouldn’t overload of shock, of pain, and John had stayed with him, frantic, his own brain overloaded with the shock and pain of – everything. And so he’d relented, and slept, gone back to the flat and cleaned himself up, just to go and get got by Moriarty’s fucking sniper.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets Moran.

"I'm fucking Mycroft," the man said, rifle against John's shoulder and foot on his chest. Despite the total batshit impossible NOT OKAY unreality of his entire life since he'd met Sherlock Holmes, John spluttered. He was going to die, and Mycroft's fuck-buddy, who was also Moriarty's sniper, was going to do it, kill him in his dressing-gown on the floor of 221B, even after everything. THIS was somehow too much.

"What the bloody FUCK are you talking about?!" He didn't move at all, this guy had him pinned solidly and he didn't actually want to die despite intolerable levels of confusion.

"I'm Mycroft's, I'm one a' fuckin' Mycroft's people." The man hissed it fast at John, but no, something was off. What- John squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again, followed the boot up, jeans, black button-up, beard, cap, what was it-

Mycroft strode in and John's attention shifted. "It's true, John," and _of course_ at this point, why wouldn't it be, everything was insane and Mycroft was was evil and oh look it still ended up with John dead except now no one would even know why, Mycroft would be sure to see to that.

"Let him up." The man with the rifle dismounted and offered John a hand, strangely small within a black leather glove. "Honestly, Moran, theatricality is one thing but given what he's been through, this is far too much." John merely gaped from the floor.

"Had to show him I could do it," the man replied, wiping his face with the back of his arm when John ignored his extended hand.

John tried to remember to keep breathing because maybe, just maybe, he wasn't going to die and this was just one of those moments like with Sherlock where things would make sense if he just kept breathing and waited.

"May I introduce Miss Sybil Moran," intoned Mycroft, with a neat gesture to the man beside him, and no, this was just not going to ever EVER be comprehendible. The sniper rolled his eyes and reached to his jaw, pulled off the bottom of his face - no. It was a fake beard, the best John had ever seen.

"Ta-da." She flourished her hand and the fake skin flopped and John was flashing back to that room and Sherlock's skin on hooks and nothing made any sense and never would and he was vomiting neatly between his spread legs, sitting up, muck spatting the hem of his robe. He wiped his mouth and breathed hard, looked up.

"Do put down the beard, Sybil, for God's sake how many PTSD triggers can you hit in one introduction?" Mycroft spat. The sniper shrugged and dropped the prosthetic next to John's tea - still hot, this had all happened so fast. Mycroft smoothed an invisible wrinkle, composed himself. "John? Can you understand me?"

John realized he'd been taking fast breaths, that he might seem to be having a flashback. He scrambled back, got the couch between him and them, shucked the sick-strained gown and scanned for his gun with his peripheral vision. _Upstairs. Damn._

"I understand that you're alarmed, but you needn't be. Moran is one of ours and we're all still on the same side - Sherlock's side."

John's panic was evident in his hunched pose, wide eyes. "But he- she- SHE SKINNED HIM-"

"No, John, she's ours, mine and Sherlock's, a double agent working with Moriarty. He had begun to suspect her so he kept her away when he abducted Sherlock, she came as soon as she knew-"

"I wasn't even there. Sorry about the hit, by the way, couldn't risk you knowing anything until Mycroft gave me the go-ahead." She looked, of all things, sheepish.

"You followed me? Mycroft was already coming?" John was still stress-taut, but his breathing had slowed a bit.

"Yes. I couldn't tell you at the hospital because we needed to be sure it was really Moriarty, and that he was really dead, and to take out a few kingpins, without interference." Mycroft looked the tiniest bit anxious for John to believe him.

John collapsed back against his chair. "And why are you telling me now?" He felt boneless, another surge of adrenaline draining from his system; he wanted to sleep for another sixteen hairs.

"She needs to stay here."

"Absolutely fucking not!" There it was, a whole new level of shock and disbelief.

"I'm afraid so, John. She is our greatest source of protection for when Sherlock returns. Her presence alone will prevent many of Moriarty's associates from attempting revenge against the man who thwarted the execution of their plans."

"SHE KILLED THOSE PEOPLE-" Panicking again. This was all far too much.

Mycroft had the good taste to look extremely uncomfortable. "She had to. We had no choice, to gain access to Moriarty. Not all of our plans were as... victimless, shall we say, as the Coventry debacle."


	3. Chapter 3

Syb moves in, then, and into 221B proper- they consider 221C for two seconds before Mycroft shoots it down, too far from Sherlock to be able to protect him as well as Mycroft would like. Mycroft acts as though John might move out and Sybil in for two seconds before Sherlock shoots it down, holding John's eye and saying, "We can share." It's the closest they've come to admitting anything, it's not negotiated but it shakes out smoothly anyway. In the end they don't even pretend to move in a second bed to Sherlock's room; John scoots in a dresser and that is that.

\---

At first, Syb reminds John of Irene, some of that haughtiness. But Irene had her weaknesses for appearances and fun and the game. Syb uses appearance as a weapon, that's the closest she comes to fun, because if it's a game she's going to _win it,_ damn it. Syb uses her haughtiness and appearance as weapons, yes; Syb uses everything as a weapon, actually.

\---

Sherlock is initially wary of Syb - he had seen her with Moriarty often during his "death," and Mycroft being her real boss wasn't much better. But a few days after moving in, she'd asked Sherlock what he preferred she tell Mycroft. A few days later, Sherlock had occasion to test what his brother had actually learned; satisfied that she was sticking to terms, he had backed off his sulking and secrecy. A few days later, during a surprise case, she'd tucked a pistol into Sherlock's palm, raised her own (Sherlock hadn't even noticed the holster bulge) and pistol-whipped some idiot warehouse guard who she had deemed to be too close to John, the knife in the man's hand skittering away. After that, she was a full member of the trio, expanding Sherlock's knowledge of disguises, going to the range to practice with John, badgering Mrs. Hudson for tea.

\---

John huffed in around midafternoon. "Early," Sherlock assessed without lookup up from the microscope.

"Fired again?" Syb inquired without looking up from her novel.

Sometimes, John really hated living with them.

"Yes, and it's your fault!" Case-running, of course.

"So quit. Sherlock gets fees, I get paid off by Mycroft - don't look at me, we worked it out and part of the money goes to the household - and the place could use a real stay-homer." Syb had, of course, taken no interest in housekeeping, though she was good enough to keep her guns in her own room.

\---

John still dates women. Sherlock didn't care, of course - but Syb was sure it was just for the sex. Sherlock had meant it when he'd said relationships weren't his area. So John went afield for that need. Syb, for her part, went afield for hers as well. She usually liked fucking her bosses, hadn't minded it even with Moriarty. But Sherlock was ace and John was painfully British about it and Mycroft and Lestrade had their thing going. She often thought ruefully, that she wished she'd had more time with Irene; they had stolen a few hours when Jim had made them wait while he attended to dark doings. Syb wished a lot of things: she wished that Molly were less straight, that "Anthea" had more time off. She didn't really want men, after Jim, there was still too much to process there. Again, by unspoken agreement, neither she nor John had sex in the flat, ever. And so things settled into a comfortable routine of cases and the occasional ill-advised attempt at Sherlock's life, always set short by Syb's rifle or John's pistol or someone's fist.


	4. Chapter 4

She kept her hair short, appearance androgynous, for whatever contingencies might arise. She could challenge Sherlock in the execution of a good sprawl, laying about the flat reading for days at a time. Her uniform was those same boots John had met with his chest, neatly fitted cargo pants, and layered black and olive ribbed tank tops. On the case, though, she was wizard with appearance and acting, ranging from coarse Sebastian to cultured Miss Moran, and all between. Her laugh never changed, though, low and dry, a smirking "heh" of a chuckle. And even at Baker Street, she stayed mostly silent when out of character.

\---

Though she didn't speak many words, she read them hungrily. She whipped through significant chunks of the journalist's and banker's libraries before John took the initiative to donate them. She wasn't as smart as Sherlock, of course, but she brought a knowledge of fiction and art to the flat that neither Sherlock nor John could compete with.

John finally asked, after the third straight day of Syb lazily plowing through Greek histories, where she'd picked up the habit. "Kept me out of trouble, growing up where I did," she'd replied, but laughed after, _heh,_ and continued, "well, kept me out of some of it." A month later, after another art case, she'd left even Sherlock impressed at her knowledge of brushwork.

"All right," John had said, "I know you didn't hang around museums as a kid, you couldn't have afforded to."

Syb had replied very quietly, "Jim taught me," and left it at that.

The two years Syb had spend running with Moriarty were a carefully avoided topic of discussion. She had obviously benefitted from her work with him (against him). Mycroft had confessed, once, that he'd doubted her for a moment when he discovered that they had been sleeping together, Sybil keeping it from him. But Syb had kept doing as told by Mycroft, undoing Moriarty's schemes with impressive subtlety, and he'd been forced to concede that it didn't really matter, to her. She had benefitted from Moriarty, yes, but her place now was with Sherlock and John, working for Mycroft on paper and fucking half of Scotland Yard and Mycroft's staff besides.

They didn't talk about that either, with a very few exceptions.

Once, when Syb had walked in, Sherlock had straightened, narrowed his eyes at her, and pronounced, "Donovan."

Syb had shrugged. "What of it?"

Sherlock huffed. "She's an idiot."

"Everyone's an idiot. Not everyone's a decent lay," she had replied, scooping up her fiction du jour, effectively ending the conversation.

\---

The second time, John saw her get out of one of Mycroft's cars, "Anthea" smiling at her through the open window, attentive and warm. John had goggled openly, hands full of Tesco's bags. Most of Syb's neck was dark purple with bruises or smeared with lipstick, Anthea's shade. He knew she liked women - sexual orientation was something that John apparently needed to determine fast - but it wasn't as though she brought them round. She'd smirked. "Want me to put in a good word for you with her?" she'd inquired.

"I- ahh- " he'd started, then resolutely shook his head. "Nope, I don't want anything."


	5. Chapter 5

Syb and John cuddle because Sherlock doesn't. It starts with Syb just harassing John, because why not? Feet in his lap, ruffling his hair, grinning at her flatmates' annoyed faces. Eventually it becomes almost sisterly - chaste but intense. After Syb and John finish reading All Quiet on the Western Front, they move to The Things They Carried, Syb's long legs across John's lab as she leans against the armrest of the couch, passing long quiet summer afternoons punctuated by the occasional explosion from Sherlock's "lab" (now taken over the kitchen table). The military fiction and histories give them something to discuss hanging round the flat, then they move to biographies. Syb has a mind like a shark, poised to analyze strategy to death, but John had spent more time in combat; once, a disagreement over A Farewell To Arms had ended with Syb and John rolling around the flat, trying to catch the other in a headlock until Mrs. Hudson came upstairs to complain about the thumping from their wrestling.

\--- 

Syb's sprawled form could almost be confrontational in comparison to Sherlock's constant buzzing energy. Her tagline was to remind John to "take it easy." And so Sybil Moran became part of 221B - ever-present and ever-vigilant, giving John the space to relax, knowing Sherlock was safe. Sherlock, for his part, had fully adjusted to his responsive shadow. He knew she wasn't here for him, not really; he had deduced of her what he needed to know and otherwise left to herself.

He and John had never been better; John was so easy, now that he didn't worry about money or Sherlock or getting permission for sex with other people. The real wonder of John was inside him, the solid cheeriness, and tender stability of this Everyman, who cared for him despite his faults and hangups, who had killed to save him time and again, who he loved as he'd never felt for anyone before. Moran had value, certainly, for her skills and knowledge, literature and disguises and firearms. But caring was not an advantage and they both knew it; so they co-existed, worked together and even ended up with a manner of trust, but they hardly generated the warmth of Sherlock and John or even the companionship of John and Syb.

Neither Sherlock nor Syb told John about their first encounter, before Jim. She had been carefully stalking him, seeing if he was worth following, when he'd counter-stalked her, catching her by the wrist in an alley. _Worth following, then,_ she had thought. But his haughty gaze had swept her down, over delicate features and breasts and hips. He had huffed, dismissively, and released her, turning to continue down the alley. When the shot rang out, smashing the lock on the gate ahead of him, he had merely turned back, narrowed his eyes, and continued through the gate with a shake of his head. Syb had tucked the pistol back into her holster and started looking for someone else.

Several months in, apparently unprovoked by John, who still didn't know, Sherlock apologized. "I should have taken you on," he said apruptly, after finishing a wild experiment on the violin. "I- It was wrong."

"It was nothing," she replied easily. "Mycroft found me right after and then Jim after that, and here we all are, cozy as you please."

Sherlock said, "Yes, very good," in the tone he used with John at crime scenes when he stumbled on a good observation, and started sawing on the violin again, the tense notes of something that reminded Syb of a chase scene. She actually listened to stuff like it on her morning runs, and she heard echoes in her head when they were in pursuit on a case. Sherlock must know. She didn't smile, exactly, but she did smirk slightly as her eyes dropped back to her book; then she let her mouth drop, knowing that Sherlock had caught it and that things between them were honestly fine.

**Author's Note:**

> This one is going in a Direction and I'm just following it. I am dying for feedback - please leave a comment or message me with critiques/suggestions if you're so inclined!


End file.
